<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>familiarity of an unfamiliar existence. by aemiliussr</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28982736">familiarity of an unfamiliar existence.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aemiliussr/pseuds/aemiliussr'>aemiliussr</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A LOT of Angst, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, Character Study, Dimension Travel, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Good Friend Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Night Terrors, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo has powers, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Tags Update with story, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), a little bit, check notes before each chapter pls, i project onto wilbur and tommy a lot uwu, kind of, mild in that the comfort is sparse, no beta we die like wilbur in skyblockle that one time, of all of them a little bit, only names are capitalized, phil is a good father in this one i promise, there are very few official ranboo tags grr bark woof, they all have Pretty Cool powers, they're usually important</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:02:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,351</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28982736</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aemiliussr/pseuds/aemiliussr</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>they aren't human, is something that tommy quickly begins to notice.</p><p>not quite.<br/>_________<br/>tommy has, in every sense of the phrase, been living life half way. half way conscious, half way aware, half way paying attention. </p><p>   there's a reason for it all, it turns out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ranboo &amp; Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit, Ranboo &amp; TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit &amp; Technoblade, TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF) &amp; Everyone, Tommyinnit &amp; Toby Smith | Tubbo, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>96</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. it's raining somewhere else</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28443957">I Think I've Lost My Mind</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockyPond/pseuds/RockyPond">RockyPond</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>ellooooooooo everyone! so sorry if you're here from any of my other works- i don't particularly imagine that there's much overlap in the MCYT and my hero or umbrella academy fandoms, but here we are! </p><p>this work was inspired by another work i read recently, which had a really, REALLY interesting concept. i had a really vivid reimagining of all the different directions it could be taken, so here's me taking those ideas and doing what the hell i want with them. if the original author would like me to remove the relations, i will, because i don't really foresee this becoming very similar to that work in anything but concept. </p><p>that being said, have fun! lots of angst is ahead of us (:</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>THEY STARTED WHEN HE WAS 13.</p><p>it had been cold, that night, cold and hot all at the same time, shirt sticking to his skin and the bedsheets weirdly clammy. it was september, or maybe october. the ventilation was broken, he thinks, neither the heat nor the AC working quite correctly. phantoms would skirt across the floorboards in misshapen patterns, the projections of shadows from just outside the window. he’d watched them for hours, listening to the distant squealing of the kettle from down the stairs. she must’ve forgotten. he’d trace the nail of his forefinger across the barren wood boards, moonlight just out of reach, and imagine he was writing secret messages to someone. he’d pretend to be some sort of protagonist in an obscure science fiction movie, holed up in an abandoned house to avoid the treacheries of the day prior. he’d be respected- that would be nice… respected, well liked…</p><p>it was loud. the first lucid thought he has is that it’s fucking <em>loud</em>. there are voices, shouting coming from his left, humming from his right. crashing, tumultuous sounds all around, rattling the windows and leaving his head spinning when he sits up too quickly. it’s dark. <em>fear</em>. he feels afraid, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, somewhere that makes his heartbeat start to pick up and his eyes glaze over. <em>why am i afraid?</em> there’s more clattering to his left, somewhere beyond the thin wall next to where he was laying. light flashes beyond a window somewhere to his right, rain pounds on the windows, and the yelling crescendos just as a clap of thunder hits, the very frame of the house he’s in feeling <em>unsafe, uneven, broken</em>- the half of him that thinks he understands what’s happening wants nothing but to fall asleep and ignore this instance, and the other desperately wants to run far away from wherever the hell this place is.</p><p>he feels secondary in his own body as he stands, hand bracing the door to ease it open as quietly as possible. hands cover his ears- <em>no, don’t do that, i want to understand what’s happening</em>- and he keeps his head down as he walks past the door of the room with the yelling, pressing down harder when thunder claps again and the voices get harsher.<em> just look up, uncover your ears, i need to know what’s happening, who are these people, why am i here, who am i</em>- his uncontrolled footsteps bring him from wood to tile. it’s cold on his bare feet.</p><p>there’s a figure, standing there, when he looks up. its- their- face is blurred, a mess of color that reminds him of the time one of the younger kids got into the paint a couple of weeks ago. they’re speaking to him, maybe, but he can’t be sure because it’s distorted and warped so much so that all he hears is static, and the part of him that he thinks is the real him doesn’t understand. he says something back, that much registers, but he still doesn’t understand.</p><p>he blinks, and the figure is gone, the noise, the cold tile on his feet, the unsettling darkness, the uncertainty. there are strong arms around his shoulders, and something like feathers tickles the side of his arm, something like warmth settling deep into his throat, and-</p><p>and it’s gone.</p><p>his stomach reels.</p><p>it’s something like sickness.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. necklace of a bird without a home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>very mild warning for some symptoms of anxiety being shown vaguely, as well as one or two instances of self-punishing behaviors! as someone that experiences anxiety, a lot of these things are just normal for me but HEY there's your warning in case it's an issue!</p>
<p>i am also just now realizing that a character like tommy doesn't exactly work well with my writing style, but i'm in too deep to turn back so</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>tick. </p>
<p>	tick. </p>
<p>	tick. </p>
<p>	the clock ticks slowly, a constant reminder of the wasted time rushing past his head. it’s not cold. not today. </p>
<p>somewhere, in the middle ground, there’s the soft sound of knife against cutting board and someone singing. in his hand, he holds a carefully carved wooden feather, something plain, something bare with splinters and peeling outer layers. maybe it represents something. maybe it doesn’t. </p>
<p>	past his eyeline, there’s a photograph. it curls at the edges, torn in one corner and faded all over. he can’t move, doesn’t control himself. the photo remains blurry. if he unfocuses his eyes correctly, he can imagine something might come of the misshapen figures. imagining doesn’t normally end well. </p>
<p>	he remembers things, sometimes. never names, never faces. feelings. friends, but friends that are cracked and peeling in the way that old wallpaper is; the pattern still makes sense, and you recognize it from living with it for a long time, but it’s always muddled, half defined and washed out. these things come in flashes, flashes that live in his mind for the next couple of days or weeks or months. they’re like little movies, sometimes. </p>
<p>	there aren’t any tonight. just the feeling of emptiness and confusion that normally accompanies nonsensical flashes of another life like this. thoughts will seep into his mind occasionally, ones that make no sense except for sometimes when he focuses on them. thoughts like “when will he be home?”, or “i miss when he would read to me.” he can never tell who ‘he’ is. </p>
<p>	the morning light is hot and unpleasant on the skin of his face, filtering in lamely from the dust-ridden window. the AC is broken, like it always is, and the light makes no effort to help with this dilemma of his. his back aches when he turns onto it, arm thrown lazily over his eyes, legs stretching across his mattress to alleviate at least some of the tension that always seeps into his bones over night. it’s something about being still, he thinks- too much raw energy kept in place for too long, like a rubber band being held at full tension for just a little too long. </p>
<p>	sounds of youth and joy escape between miniscule cracks in the walls and edges around the windows, through the fog of sleep,  reminding him of what couldn’t have been. </p>
<p>well, it isn’t exactly what couldn’t have been. there’s another timeline, or another imagining of his life, where it’s what was. or maybe it’s what could have been. some nights, he feels at home and safe and loved when he finds himself in that house. some nights, there’s a hand in his hair and quiet melodies in the background, a sword on the floor nearby as he leans against someone much stronger than him, a thumb swiping against his cheek on dark nights and reassuring words. other nights, he’s not quite sure he knows what’s happening. doesn’t think he wants to. </p>
<p>some nights, he can smell blood and something acrid, something like mourning. some nights, he doesn’t quite know what he’s seeing, what he’s hearing, but it fills him with a melanchole so deep that it hurts his bones. a sword that sits on the mantle. a coat that stays on the coat rack forever. hands that shake with every raised voice, every sound of fireworks.</p>
<p>it’s reassuring to know they can enjoy their youth. the system is no where near kind, he knows. he knows the ins and outs of how bad it can be, can't even begin to list on both hands the amount of times the case workers didn’t care or the families just wanted to feel charitable. </p>
<p>the dust in the air stirs when he sits up from the spring-ridden mattress, stretching his arms over his head noisily and yawning. heels click on the wooden floor outside, coming up the stairs one at a time, and it only serves to remind him of what’s supposed to happen today. right. he’s not particularly excited about meeting the next family to foster him- he never is- and the fact that he won’t meet anyone from the household but his soon-to-be guardian until he arrives at the house isn’t really helping. </p>
<p>knuckles on thin wood is a sharp sound, cutting through his still half-asleep state. “tom! you’ll be meeting with your new guardian in little under an hour, you need to be ready by then!” his shouts of affirmation are muffled by his hands raking across his face, but the footsteps move beyond his door and he can only assume she got the message. </p>
<p>rather than attempting to stand, he just slides onto the floor, hands finding the grooves in the worn-out wood floor. one of the younger kids from outside screams, padded out some by the plastic of the windows. the wood of the bed frame digs into his back. </p>
<p>it presses a thin line into his skin, sure to leave it red and irritated. there’s an arm over his shoulder, heavy, pulling him into another body. it’s cold today, in a way that is internal and innate, but the steady rhythm of someone else’s breathing keeps it away. he can tell that they’re saying something, by the way that their chest moves, but he hears nothing. it sounds like he’s under water, far away and muddled. the syllables must be mixed, because even when he focuses on it, it comes out as gibberish. </p>
<p>the wall ahead is blank, jagged stone with random handholds and cracks. there are photos in the corner by the door- a jankily built thing that he guesses doesn’t work very well. </p>
<p>tommy’s hands feel like fire. </p>
<p>unsurprisingly, the hall smells of freshly cooked food, but the way that it does after everyone’s finished eating and it’s been left, waiting to be put away. the stairs creak under his weight as he makes his way down stairs, weaving in between other older kids that also have yet to have eaten breakfast. he nearly hits his head on one of the low door frames at the bottom of the stairs, holding his head and ducking below it as he curses indiscriminately. one of the staff members grimaces and steers herself and one of the young ones away from his path, to which he just offers her an apologetic smile and a wave. she doesn’t seem particularly pleased. </p>
<p>also unsurprisingly, all that’s left of the breakfast for this morning is cold and not exactly the cream of the crop. the leftover toast is burnt on at least one half, the milk has been sitting out for slightly too long and feels almost warm to the touch, and the only cheese left is some of the cheap, fake stuff meant for the younger ones. burnt toast it is. </p>
<p>he’s already eaten half of it by the time he’s made his way to his spot by the window, trying his best to ignore how uncomfortably close to the consistency of chalk it is. the quiet ambience of the background noises of the group home are comforting, in a way that he can’t quite place his finger on. </p>
<p>-      -     -     -     -     -     -     - </p>
<p>	phil is, as tommy very quickly comes to understand, nothing like any of the other families that have wanted to take him in before. for starters, he seems to be single- from the way that he speaks, he and his other kids (housemates? their relationships are unclear) are completely on their own. there’s no wife, or fiance, or girlfriend that enters the room with him, no mentioned “she and i wanted to give back to the community”, no nothing. just a polite greeting, offhanded comments that imply he’s done this before, and some basic conversation that entails a brief bit of tommy’s history and anything that phil should know before he gets his things and leaves. it’s- it’s strange. </p>
<p>	another thing that strikes him as odd is the knowing looks. he can see them, glimpses out of the corner of his eye, small glances that his possible foster sends his way. they make his mind race, too many different possibilities all running around in his head and finding purchase in every crevice of working brain space. it sends sweat down his spine, and he thinks of everything that he could’ve possibly done to be at the receiving end of this stare. should tommy recognize him from somewhere? have they met before? </p>
<p>	ms. oleander- his case worker- gives him a quiet look of concern as his leg starts bouncing. the current conversation returns back to his consciousness, the white noise of his brief panic falling away to reveal the review of information he’s sure both his case worker and phil already know about. they’ll be done soon. hopefully. </p>
<p>	the look in his eyes lets on that he knows exactly what tommy’s up to, grin just barely suppressed. he can’t tell what his face looks like beyond that, just an intrinsic knowledge of what expression the face in front of him is contorted into. </p>
<p>	he smiles somewhat sheepishly back at him, twirling his dually wielded sticks awkwardly in both hands. he’s been getting better at it, but they still get caught awkwardly on his fingers sometimes. his brother is unsuspecting a couple of feet away, back turned, and his smile turns from coy to plotting. the faceless man turns away from him with an expression that tells him he can do whatever. </p>
<p>	“alright, then, tom, if you could go ahead and get your things, that would be great.” the smile on ms. oleander’s face is colored in at the edges with concern, something he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been around her for the past five years or so. he glances between the two of them, standing uncomfortably as the two remain seated. </p>
<p>	“go ahead, mate.” he just stares for a moment or two, silence deafening, before turning and leaving for the stairs as quickly as possible without looking as though he’s trying to escape. he doesn’t think that phil would mind- not with the behavior he’s seen from the man thus far- but he’s sure his case worker would love an excuse to pull him aside and lecture him about the ethics of making foster families feel unworthy by showing discomfort or fear. </p>
<p>	tommy takes the steps two at a time, like he usually does, taking a hard turn into his door. his shoulder aches with the impact, and he swears before pushing it open with the knob. his legs are shaking. </p>
<p>	looking in at what’s been his room for nearly six years now, he feels… disconnected. confined. </p>
<p>	it’s bare, for the most part. empty walls, plain bedsheets. a couple of knick knacks sit on his desk, school laptop taking up a small portion of the otherwise empty expanse of wood. he’s seen the insides of other kids’ rooms- a lot of them tape notes from friends or school assignments they’re proud of to the walls, something he imagines he’d do if he hadn’t been told at age twelve to always be ready to go. no need to make a home of somewhere you won’t be for long was something that ms. oleander loved to say since they’d first met. he should know better, really, but something in the back of his mind clings to the idea of belonging, being part of a real family. one that looks like it belongs in the magazines that get sold in corner shops. it’s a far-off dream, he knows, but it’s been sitting in his head for far too long to not hold some weight in his heart. </p>
<p>	he’d already gathered most of his things into a small duffel bag the night before, which sits in a misshapen lump at the foot of his bed. in it is… not much, really. spare changes of clothes. schoolwork. chargers for his phone and laptop, headphones. his laptop is quick to be packed away next, and the last of his miscellaneous belongings- a wrapper from some candy the social workers gave him his first night away from home, an old book cover from a library book he never returned. logically, they shouldn’t mean anything- should be left behind, should’ve been thrown out a long time ago. </p>
<p>	“you know, tommy, you don’t have to hold on to random shit like this.” his hands clutch the random mess of papers tighter to his chest. </p>
<p>	“yeah, well- what if i want to, bitch? you ever think of that? huh?” the person next to him breathes a quiet laugh, shaking his head. </p>
<p>	“sure.” </p>
<p>	something like remorse crawls under his skin as he slings the bag over his shoulder, doing one last useless once over of the room. his feet feel heavy as he makes his way back down the stairs. every time there’s a new fostering situation for him, there’s an air of finality before he leaves. it doesn’t normally last more than two weeks, once the family realizes that fostering takes time and effort. he can imagine, though- there’s always the hope that this one will be the one. </p>
<p>	by the time he’s made his way downstairs, ms. oleander and phil are talking by the door to the group home, away from where some of the primary school age children are gathered around the TV. he feels simultaneously too big and too small for the space, trying his best to hunch over as a compromise to his own mind. the smile he offers is timid at best, but it’s kind of difficult to maintain confidence when you’re about to be thrown into a living situation with strangers. </p>
<p>	tommy’s grip tightens around the strap of the duffle bag as phil turns to him and waves him over, taking a glance between tommy’s face and his bag. he feels like he’s being horribly scrutinized, even with the vaguely paternal look on his face. </p>
<p>	it doesn’t feel right. </p>
<p>	ms. oleander’s hand on his shoulder is grounding, pulling him off to the side slightly. “alright, tom. i think this could be a really good thing for you, but you have to be willing to let it be, okay?” her eyes flicker between the both of his, something that makes him shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. </p>
<p>	“yeah, yeah, got it.” the frown he gets in return is turned up at the corners, and while she doesn’t smile with her mouth, she smiles with her eyes. something stirs in his throat, and it tastes like fire. </p>
<p>-      -     -     -     -     -     -     - </p>
<p>	the car ride to the house is filled with silence. it feels heavy in the worst and best ways, suffocating around his eyes and ears and comforting everywhere else, the kind of presence that lets him know he doesn’t need to speak but makes his mind buzz with the anticipation of any upcoming conversation. </p>
<p>	it makes his hands shake and his leg bounce. out of the corner of his eye, he can tell phil is paying him no mind, but that offers nothing in the way of reassurance. the shops and other buildings speed by, until, finally, there’s nothing but an expanse of wooded land. it’s nice. he doesn’t think he’s been this far away from the group home, possibly since his first fostering experience- not that he would remember. the glass is cold against his temple. </p>
<p>	he must’ve fallen asleep at some point, a rare dreamless one, because one moment there’s nothing but an endless expanse of trees, and the next he’s being shaken awake just on this side of too hard by a guy with- “wait holy fucking shit is your hair seriously pink-?” and horn-rimmed glasses. holy shit where is phil. </p>
<p>	“come on, we gotta go. the others are waitin’ inside, food’s almost done.” his gaze is completely deadpan, and while part of tommy tells him he’s not bothered whatsoever, there’s something about this guy’s eyes that tells him he should be running away right now. </p>
<p>	instead of doing that, he just nods blearily before unbuckling himself and stepping out of the car. the outside of the house is unassuming, a medium sized building built out of greyish bricks. most of the surrounding homes are the same, the neighborhood looking perfectly uniform. definitely not somewhere you would expect to find a six-foot-something guy with waist length pink hair and a fucking cloak, but it looks nice enough. </p>
<p>	his steps are careful and light as he follows his new, very odd-looking, housemate through the front door. immediately, he’s struck by how- how- homey, it all is. there are multiple sets of shoes by the door, jackets and bags hanging on a rack in the entryway hall. it feels too warm, too close-knit and established for him to find a place here. there’s loud conversation happening somewhere past the empty door frame down the hall, the voices all blending in together. </p>
<p>	he feels like an intruder. </p>
<p>	a shoulder shoved into his snaps him out of his stupor, stumbling forward ever so slightly as the pink haired guy swings the door shut. “well, come on. none of us bite, i promise ya.” all tommy can do is nod and clear his throat a little, sure that he still looks a little shell shocked as he steadily meanders after him. </p>
<p>	“wait- uh, well- i don’t know your name?” he scowls at his own stuttering, pinching the inside of his wrist firmly. </p>
<p>	“techno.” there’s very little time to process this as the pink haired guy- techno- turns into a doorway near the end of the hall. “well, this’ll be your room… you can, uh,  go ahead an’ put your things down, phil said he at least wants you to meet the others and get a plate of food before retreating back in here.” </p>
<p>	tommy nods slowly,  stepping into the already furnished room and placing his bag down on the full-sized bed in the corner. it’s a nice room, he thinks. not that he has much experience with bedrooms, but at the very least, this one looks well put together. a lot of the things are somewhat new, he can tell. something like guilt sits heavily in the back of his throat. </p>
<p>	“er- lead the way, big man!” the way he says it comes out just a little too flat, but he doesn’t think techno notices or cares. he just turns and starts walking, cloak flaring out just a touch too dramatically as he does. much to his own disdain, a half-smile tugs at the corners of his lips, something he hides by walking with his head down until it passes. </p>
<p>the room they end up in is an overwhelming mess of voices, conversation topics, smells, and background noises. the size of it is one of the first things he notices. it’s not big, by any means, more cramped than any other kitchen-slash-eating-area he’s been in in the past ten or so years. the lighting is dim, the curtains are drawn, and various pictures and papers are littered across the walls and cabinets. </p>
<p>the second thing that comes to his attention is holy shit, why are all of them this tall? he’d thought that techno was tall, the man being about his height, but the two that he has yet to speak to are fucking tall tall. they look to be about the same height- which is very, very tall- though the one with ashy black-brown hair might be just slightly taller than the one with glasses- round ones, different from techno’s horn-rimmed pair. </p>
<p>the three of them- phil and the two tall ones- move around each other like they’ve known each other for years. it’s unsettling in the way that he feels like an outsider, like someone watching the experiences of a real family through some sort of carefully curated lens. they’re talking to each other, about something that doesn’t quite reach his ears. </p>
<p>there’s a hand on his shoulder, guiding him just outside of the room. he blinks, heavy and steadying, and phil is standing in front of him. “sorry for leaving you with techno, mate, i know he can be a little off putting sometimes. had to get back to supervision quick, god knows those three can’t be trusted in the kitchen alone.” his skin feels warm just beneath his shirt where phil is touching him, and an instinctual smile comes to his face as he speaks. he pulls it back into a neutral grimace just as quickly as it came on, staring at the wall to the side of his face. </p>
<p>“no, no, it was- he was fine! don’t you worry.” he shifts his eyes back to meet phil’s, forced wry smile plastered over his face. phil seemingly searches for something more to it, before offering up a smile of his own. it feels familiar. </p>
<p>“right, well, they’ll have had everything set out by now, i think.” </p>
<p>they have, in fact, gotten everything set out. yet again, he’s struck by the domesticity of the scene in front of him. techno sits closest to the window, leaning close to one with the less saturated brown hair. he seems to be whispering something, startling a laugh out of tall (who he assumes to be a) teenager. the right of said seeming teenager, the one with glasses, is dramatically telling a story that tommy has issues making sense of. </p>
<p>phil still has a hand on his shoulder, keeping them close enough to the doorway that the three at the table haven’t noticed them yet. “that, there, is ranboo-” he motions towards the one with ashy hair, who’s currently hiding his face in his hands while leaning back an absurd amount in his chair. “he’s about your age.” tommy nods, albeit slowly, wondering why the fuck phil has a kid named ranboo. </p>
<p>“you’ve already met techno, i know, but he’s the oldest. he’s- yeah, he’s not my kid, just a friend i’ve known for a while. but, er, next to him is will, who is in fact my own.” he nods again, committing their names to memory. </p>
<p>“well, uh- can i-?” tommy motions vaguely behind himself, glancing between the plate of food waiting for him on the counter and the floor. phil lets him go with a quiet ‘of course, mate’, and a short pat on the back, watching to make sure tommy gets a plate. </p>
<p>tommy doesn’t eat that night, lying on his back and staring at his ceiling as he listens to the sounds of family, imagining that he’s been here for the past sixteen years instead of in the group home, bouncing between his residency there and in random families. </p>
<p>the cracking wood of a carved feather sits heavy in his hand as he drifts off to sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ayo i 100% thought i'd only have 1k words for this chapter but uh the shit just flew out of me and here we are! it'd normally take me a month to write this much, so maybe that's a testament to how much i like this idea lmao<br/>chapter title is from the song <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/7sa7yA74D6B7WnnhPtgsHx?si=8t_ir8poQ12og2g1ndUQqw">it was a swift not a swallow</a> :)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mmmm hi hello there everyone (: don't worry, all the actual chapters will be around 3-5 thousand words, give or take some longer or shorter chapters here or there. i'm also going to try to update semi-frequently, but i am not known for keeping ongoing works actually going, so we'll see about that.<br/>chapter title is from <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/5z4vmar50qPl80GjIrPBXm?si=SlRD5SNDS8-Q_y_eWFUg7w">it's raining somewhere else</a> (:</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>